They nap like two ships passing in the night...

one is always waking when the other is ready to sleep, making it nearly impossible for Mommy to catch a break

Photo by Olga Nayda on Unsplash

Today I felt like a failure, and even though I know that I’m not a failure, the feeling lingered all day long. It doesn’t help that it’s gray outside and the weather decided it was finally going to act like February, delivering a spattering of wintery mix all afternoon, stifling any desire I had to get outside and move and get the kids fresh air, not that I could have actually taken the kids outside at the same time because they nap like two ships passing in the night, one is always waking when the other is ready to sleep, making it nearly impossible for Mommy to catch a break, but still, the weather sucked.

At one point, after Loren woke up from his nap wailing for Daddy, utterly refusing Mommy, and screaming so loudly that his brother was beginning to stir in the next room (there was a rare, blissful twenty minutes where their naps did overlap today), I stepped out to reset.

As I walked down the stairs to take a few deep breaths and grab a glass of water, I could hear the pit pat of sleet pelting the skylight above me, and when I looked up to see it, a thin layer of ice was coating the glass just enough that I couldn’t see through. That’s how today felt.

Last month (it actually feels like months ago) we took a family trip to St. Pete Beach, Florida. It had been gloomy and cold for weeks, and that morning was no different. As we drove to the airport, the radio broadcaster mentioned how most of Michigan had seen only five minutes of sunshine the entire month.

Shortly after our plane took off we ascended into the clouds—the thick, opaque kind that wrap themselves around body of the airplane so tightly they cling to the windows—until there was this moment when the plane lifted above the clouds and SUN. Blinding bright white sun beaming, forcing me to squint, and filling me with surprise and wonder, as if I’d forgotten such beauty existed. It was healing and hopeful. Today, in all of the funk and fatigue, I wished for that moment.

We recently had a quick round of the stomach flu pass through our household, and it’s left us feeling irritable, off, and exhausted. Kai is about to cut his two front teeth—it’ll happen tonight, I swear—Loren’s working on one of his last few molars, and, honestly, do I even need to make excuses about why the kids still wake at night?

I felt like a failure today, when, after Loren finally went down for a nap and Kai had just woken up, I had zero energy. I lay on the ground, half asleep, and halfheartedly pushed a ball toward him. I watched as he crawled around the living room, picking up cat toys and putting them in his mouth. To my credit, most of the time I try to prevent this from happening, but not today. I just lay there and watched him put the catnip banana in his mouth, willing him to take an early nap.

I lay there and wallowed in my own self-pity. I thought about how, when Loren was a baby—an only child—I created new sensory experiences for him every week. I narrated our daily activities to boost his vocabulary, I researched age-appropriate crafts for us, I rotated his toys, and gave him meaningful structure every day, changing activities every 30 minutes or so to keep him engaged and interested. Yes, I was that mom.

I remember my grandma coming over for a visit one day and asking me, “You don’t actually spend all day entertaining him, do you?” Or something to that effect, and I unconvincingly answered, “Ummm…no.” Which of course, was a total lie. I spent every waking minute with Loren. And, for the most part, I liked it, but then my mental health started to suffer, I lost sight of who I was outside of “Loren’s Mama,” and I longed for my own space. But that’s a different story. Back to Kai.

When I finally guilted myself into creating a meaningful experience for him—this poor, semi-neglected second child (okay, I’m being too hard on myself, he really does have a great life)—I mustered enough energy to pry myself up off the floor and grab the finger paints. I buckled him into his highchair and scooted him to the table, squirting a blob of paint onto a sheet of cardstock. He dipped his finger in, winced, and touched the blob again. And then, in one swift motion, he put the paint into his mouth. Loren did this too. Why do kids love to eat finger paint? Wouldn’t Crayola make a killing if finger paint actually tasted good? Is it really non-toxic? I don’t want to know. Maybe the problem is that I’m setting him up to paint in his highchair, a place he rightfully associates with eating.

A few minutes later, after he’d put the paint in his mouth, smeared it all over his hair and face, and began crying, I walked over to the sink to wet the washcloth to clean him up when, because things can always get worse, the cat jumped onto the table and walked through the red and purple finger paint. Total. Shit. Show.

My sunny moment came after the kids had simultaneous meltdowns; it came after a few minutes of infuriating indecision from my toddler whose world ruined for having to choose a f*cking teether from the freezer; it came after Loren took every single band aid out of the box and scattered them on the floor and watched with terror and fury as his baby brother crawled over to grab one, and yep, the meltdowns started again. My sunny moment came after I lost my shit with the kids and yelled in frustration. It happened after I stormed out of the house and into the garage, let out one giant roar, and sat down on a cold camping chair to breathe. Thank you, therapy, for these coping skills.

We went upstairs to build forts and Loren invited me in. We read books and played with his flashlight. We sang the song from one of his favorite episodes of “Thomas and Friends: All Engines Go.” We played with his Lovevery Drop & Match Dot Catcher. He voluntarily snuggled up to me and gave me a hug. For a moment, it was exceptionally sunny.  

I think the most accurate metaphor for the stage of parenting I’m currently experiencing is a rollercoaster. The highs are incredibly high and the lows are unbelievably low.

I don’t ride rollercoasters much these days, but I’ve been on a fair share to know that the initial climb of that first peak, as the cars are inching their way to the top, clicking and lurching forward, is the most nerve-wracking, unsettling part of the entire ride. Those particular moments seem to last forever, and all the while I’m dreading what comes next. But when the cars reach the top, and that sun finally breaks through the clouds (yes, I had to tie in the initial airplane metaphor), we whoosh down the hill, smiling and screaming for joy, and forget about the dreadful climb.

Maybe it’s a clunky metaphor, but it’s working for me right now, and it’s a good reminder that there’s always a way down after the difficult moments, there’s always sun, even when we’re surrounded by clouds and we can’t see it.

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